


Iron Curtain, Glass Walls

by capsized_heart



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Cold War, F/F, F/M, Healing, Multi, One Shot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-07-23 13:42:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20009230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capsized_heart/pseuds/capsized_heart
Summary: You’ve heard whispers of broken societies outside these walls, of the end of the world. It seems much hasn’t changed since the Great Patriotic War ended in 1945. The west has persisted at flaunting their bombs capable of obliterating entire cities. The threat of another war, a nuclear war, looms over the globe like pressing darkness.If the world is on the brink of collapse, you want Natalia by your side.(Following Reader, Natasha, and Steve traveling across Europe during the Cold War)





	Iron Curtain, Glass Walls

**Author's Note:**

> hi there! This was originally written for a writing challenge on tumblr (come find me @capsized-heart)! and I really enjoyed this au concept! Steve and Natasha are just..such a power duo..so..this was a lot of fun.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

You first encounter Natalia Romanova in the Red Room, buried deep within the suffocating, bitter mountains of the Soviet Union. Her name is seared into your memory the day of your first major assessment at sixteen. 

Natalia throws you to the ground in a sparring session, grappling your fragile neck between her forearms as you struggle to force her off. You thrash and snarl like a wounded beast, claw at exposed skin, try and kick out her legs. But you know it all too well to be futile. Natalia is already an impeccable fighter on her feet, one of the best. Bringing her to the ground, her element, is a lethal mistake. 

The crush in your bones, your larynx is unbearable. Pressure and darkness pound behind your eyelids as Natalia squeezes harder, one easy crack away from extinguishing your meager life. As your breath starts to taper, the training room melts away and a voice in the back of your mind whispers of letting go, how easy it would be to give in. It calls to you like a siren, the bliss of succumbing to unfeeling oblivion. Even death would be more liberating than this prison. 

Then, the pressure at your neck lessens and you’re back in the snow-blinded baroque studio with a beautiful girl’s hands around your throat. You tap out and Natalia steps away from you like a perfect shadow. Silent, poised. 

A wheezing cough rattles through your lungs as you gasp for air, your mind working quickly. You’ve seen girls kill each other in this room, slaughter each other with nothing more than their fingernails. Evaluations like these are meant to be spectacles as well as skill assessments. And Natalia had let up. Shown you mercy. 

Dread sits heavy in your stomach. Forfeit and empathy are both punishable by death, Natalia could be killed just for obeying your wish. You curse yourself for being so greedy. 

Madame clicks her tongue in disdain. _“Небрежный,”_ she hisses. _Sloppy._

Madame speaks directly to you, freshly powdered and wearing a pressed dress the color of an ocean storm. Disappointment stings her words like a cracking whip. You want to curl in on yourself. Your eyes trace the subtle cresting stitches of her seamstress’s handiwork as you inwardly prepare for the punishment to come, disassociate. You wish you could drop dead right there, or perhaps shipwreck against a jagged, tropical coast somewhere in the southern Mediterranean. Yes, you like this scenario better, you think. You’d wander along sunkissed beaches and feel the salty wind, the glow of lush sunset glittering on your skin and hair. It’s been so long since you’ve felt warmth in this Siberian hell.

 _“ты будешь сильнее,”_ says Madame. _You will be stronger_ . “ _Наталья научит тебя.”_ Another clipped remark, _Natalia will oversee you._

Her words astonish you. The promise of redemption, to prove yourself again. You hazard a glance at Natalia. Eyes of emerald slowly drift up your frame before holding your gaze. In challenge or intimidation you can’t tell. You’ve heard whispers of the nicknames she’s earned for herself. You shiver. Something else lusters deep within those eyes, something you can’t quite place.

You set your shoulders, draw yourself tall and grand. The position is familiar for you. 

_“Да.”_ You answer Madame. 

\--

Natalia is a star pupil and seizes your reputation as Madame’s most capable protégé. You loathe Natalia at first, despise her for making you look weak, incompetent in front of your assessors. But you can’t question her talent as a mentor. She’s fierce, relentless, matching your assessors’ instruction style with the same physical disciplines. Stinging swats to your forearms and chest as she corrects your arabesque, purple and yellow bruises blooming underneath the tender skin of your ribcage, lilac and marigold, fitting the curve of her knuckles like a twisted puzzle piece. Your body collects marks, evidence of being overpowered again and again. 

_“Gib nicht auf.”_ She always spits whenever the two of you train alone. _Don’t give up_.

She speaks to you in German, your mother tongue, yet a language that feels clumsy from neglect, before the Academy forced you to compartmentalize it away and trade it for English, Russian, French, Latin...

It’s as comforting to hear again as it is invigorating to push you harder. An intimate code you share with her, a protected barrier to keep you separated from the overbearing languages of the Academy, of Madame.

 _Again!_ She always chants. _“Nochmal!”_

Ever since your first sparring session, Natalia has sensed that primal instinct deep inside you, tucked away behind hardened muscle and a decades worth of protocols and indoctrination; the simple temptation to submit, to roll over and let the predator’s jaws tear into your jugular. Natalia is your she-wolf, possessive and nurturing, standing guard over you in your vulnerability at your Lupercal. You cling to her, give back everything she offers with thrice the vigor. She tells you the instinct’s prominency varies differently from individual to individual and works at drawing it out of you before Madame can. 

\--

You’ve heard whispers of broken societies outside these walls, of the end of the world. It seems much hasn’t changed since the Great Patriotic War ended in 1945. The west has persisted at flaunting their bombs capable of obliterating entire cities. The threat of another war, a _nuclear_ war, looms over the globe like pressing darkness. As undercover specialists and assassins alike, you and the rest of the girls train harder. You are the secret weapons of the Fatherland and the day of your graduation draws near. You must be ready.

You feel like dancers frozen in place inside a child’s snow globe. Carefully preserved in time, shielded from what’s beyond your bubble of glass.

If the world is on the brink of collapse, you want Natalia by your side.

\--

You no longer flinch or hesitate. You always strike first with bullets and steel and strength and soon, Natalia’s critiques turn into pleased compliments, a rarity, the corner of her lips curving into that devious smirk that drives you wild, glossy green eyes pinning you with every meticulous movement.

But despite her grim techniques at eradicating your fears, Natalia never fully breaks you. She leaves a small piece in the center of your chest untouched, buried so far within that not even she or Madame will be able to stamp it out of you. Another safeguard she plants to keep you from harm, away from prying eyes that loom behind the glass.

 _“Todesangst ist keine Schwäche.”_ She hums to you one quiet night, _fear of death is not a weakness._ The silver of the moon and snow casts the room in an ethereal veil of pearl, starlight. You weave away from her punches, dance in shadow. _“Völlige Furchtlosigkeit ist nur Dummheit.” Complete fearlessness is only stupidity._

Her constant pressure molds your mind and body into diamond. Your competence becomes perfection, your previous expertize now honed into excellence, one of the most elite assassins that the Academy has ever seen. You and Natalia are inseparable, regarded highly by your assessors and top of the class. Diamond and marble, the two of you are untouchable, visceral, dangerous. 

You consider Natasha your closest friend, an ally. But something about her sends heat flushing through your cheeks, a subtle tremor in your fingers whenever she stands beside you in drills. You think it at first to be the pride of sharing such an honorable position as favorites, but this is quickly dismissed the moment she presses you into a darkened hallway one moonless night and kisses you with such intensity that you nearly buckle. All the training, tension, countless stolen hours and the competitiveness crackling between the two of you spills over an unspoken threshold and Natasha is keening in your arms and letting you know exactly how she feels. Her turn to be vulnerable and oh so eager.

And like the perfect apprentice you are, you take it.

You take one of her ruby red lips between your teeth, take her face in your hands and kiss her back like you’re breathing new life and restitution into her lungs. Open mouths, broken sighs. Natasha tastes like rouge and gunpowder, hints of smoke and luminous perfume. You tighten a leg around her slender waist and she pushes you harder into the wall, cold against your overheated skin, her fingers reaching below the waistband of your uniform.

She wants to savor, take care of you. You can feel it in the softness that suddenly manifests in her featherlike strokes where you need her most, embarrassingly slick. But it’s simply impossible, not when anyone could stumble upon two frightened young assassins in the dead of night, not when you both want each other like this.

Burning heat pools in your core as her fingers sink and curl, push and recede. She looks devilish with that smirk, maroon locks falling over half-lidded eyes as she brings you closer and closer to bliss.

You cling to Natasha with everything you have, clawing into her back, breathless when her other hand finds the velvety kiss of your lips and tongue as she eases her fingers into your mouth to quiet your whimpers, nosing along the crook of your neck, murmuring and cooing for you to _submit_ , _let go._ Your pulse is erratic and wild and you know she can feel it in your delicate, fluttering flesh.

It’s over much too quickly. You come undone with a desperate sigh and fracturing like the white light burning behind your eyelids, radiant. Natasha is the only thing keeping you upright through your tremors and you feel boneless and satisfied. 

Reality trickles in when she removes her fingers and you hazard a moan, suddenly feeling very empty and she teases you for the mess you’ve made. 

You’ve broken about a thousand conducts, curfew included.

 _Love is for children,_ the Academy always tells you. You’ve been taught all your life to keep everything locked up tight and compartmentalized. No room for remorse, desire. Emotions that cloud judgement. Only efficiency and the art of fast death. 

But you and Natasha are no longer children, not with the blood on both of your hands and your slick coating her fingers. 

Wind screams outside as a blizzard swirls around your corner of Europe. The windows shudder and groan and you wonder how much force it takes for glass to break.

\--

Madame notices the lingering touches between you and Natasha, the unwavering attention that she gives only you. Madame declares it weakness.

But she knows she can’t afford to lose her two most valuable assets, not in the permanency of death. Consequently, Natasha is immediately inducted into her graduation ceremony and Madame has you stand as witness. 

You think of glowing sunsets and warm waves as you’re forced to watch.

\--

You’re not sure how much time has passed since Natasha was shipped off like the commodity she was made to be. Madame prepares you for your own ceremony at the end of the coming month, pleased at your progress. 

If only she knew that none of this is for her. 

**

You sit in a briefing room in the heart of London. The window of sky is a cool gunmetal grey, chilly, and the promise of rain hangs in the clouds. You reclasp your hands in your lap, patiently counting the passing minutes.

At 0800, Director Peggy Carter strides into her bureau and gives you a kind smile. 

“Early as always, Agent. Did you pick the lock this time or sleep in my office overnight?” 

“Open window, ma’am.” You tease back. Peggy graces you with a light chuckle and places her handbag behind her desk. 

“Well, I’ll have to remind Jarvis to lock up properly, won’t I?” 

A lifetime ago, you had been desperate for a way out after a mission for the KGB turned sideways. Once the onsite MI6 team had extracted you from the drop zone and sent you to London for questioning, the state had been extremely hostile in demanding information and names, claiming that your cooperation was only a ploy and threatening to deport you back to the USSR. No one could understand your willingness to put a target on your own back. Yet, Peggy Carter had taken direct oversight of your case and wiped all traces of you clean off Soviet intel. Peggy had given you an escape, the new life you’ve been yearning for ever since Natasha’s graduation. You owe Peggy everything. 

So, you traded the KGB for MI6 and never looked back.

You’ve always thrived under authority, direction and because of you, MI6 has managed to bounce back from a spell of jeopardized missions. Your record has been nothing short of impressive since. You single handedly uncovered the Soviet spy ring nestled within the United Kingdom known as the Cambridge Five, exposing double agent Harold Philby feigning as British intelligence. Most recently, you had unearthed the compromised discovery of Soviet headquarters in Berlin and the mole behind Operation Stopwatch. 

For once in your life, you feel like you’re doing good in the world, finally removing some of the red in your ledger. And working for a motivated, dynamic woman like Peggy Carter is a reward in itself. 

She’s a firecracker and always pushing you to better yourself. She reminds you of Natasha. 

Peggy then stands and slides a manila folder across the surface of the desk. 

“Your time is arguably more valuable than mine, so I’ll get right to it. A report from Foreign Office officials in Moscow is detailing a new type of USSR weapon.” She informs you. You open the cover of the file and scan the transcript yourself.

_Director,_

_The JIC are meeting tomorrow to see whether they can draw any firm conclusions about Mr. Khrushchev’s recent boast that the Russians had a weapon which could destroy the world._

_The experts’ preliminary view is that Mr. Khrushchev has not made a great new breakthrough in any technological field: that is to say he has not developed any new rocketry or form of explosion._

_Apparently Moscow press and radio are tending to play Mr. Khrushchev’s statement down. We shall hope to know more tomorrow; in particular we hope to have the Americans’ opinion._

As you page through the rest of the intel, your eyes fall on the weapon’s alleged codename. 

Winter Soldier. 

\--

For the next hour, Peggy details the specifics of your mission. You will be traveling through the heart of central Europe gathering as much intel as you can. Possible isotope makeups, key scientists and persons of interests, inklings of foreign buyers, anything you can find. 

“We’ve also enlisted the help of two of the best foreign agents.” Peggy finishes. 

There’s a soft knock at the door and two figures enter the room. A fiery redhead and a handsome young man with hair the color of starlight.

Your stomach drops through the floor. 

“I’d like to formally introduce one of MI6’s own, Agent Natasha Romanoff and Agent Steve Rogers of the American CIA.”

Time stands still. You are back in the baroque studio with its glass walls, mirrors. Two figurines of diamond and marble perfumed with the bite of gunpowder, iron and blood. Lingering memories of long nights muted by wind and howling snow sends a flush of heat through your bones.

 _Natasha._ The sound of her diminutive is enough to trigger the slightest sting of tears, one you have sighed over and over against her lips. 

And she sees it all the moment her eyes meet yours. Her perfect mask falls and you see the girl you met at sixteen, the warmth of her youthful beauty, the aching, familiar flare in her piercing gaze. Her chest rises in a delicate breath of surprise, one you mirror. 

Then, the world continues to spin on its axis. 

Natasha is a secret you want to keep tucked away from the rest of the world behind the small piece of you she already knows of. You rise from your seat, extending a hand.

“Ms. Romanoff, it’s a pleasure.” You smile politely. Not missing a beat, Natasha’s hand finds yours. Her skin is smooth, just as you remember. She gives you a curt nod. 

“The pleasure is mine.” She answers through curved lips.

Steve turns to you and there’s a hint of old charm to him. Cordial, patient. It draws you in, much like his touch, calloused and firm against your own.

“The CIA could use some pointers.” Steve says with a gentle, crooked grin that warms you to your core. “It’s an honor to finally meet you.”

**

Paris blooms for you with fresh breezes and sweeping cityscapes of ornate Lutetian limestone. The glittering chandelier of La Tour Eiffel is a picturesque canvas framed by the window of your suite. Steve has drawn the curtains back, fluttering chiffon white and the drifting hum of French from the streets below. The three of you work at the large cherry oak table now pushed in the center of the room, strewn with notes and transcripts and photographs. 

There’s an intimate familiarity between Steve and Natasha. Not of lust, but of companionship, experience, and trust. You see it in the soft quarreling, how they carry themselves.

And Steve offers you the same tenderness. His faith in your leads, a warm hand on your shoulder when he suggests sleep after a long night of research. Steve is kind and good.

So, you find yourself holding back a snort when Natasha sends him out of the room like an errand boy with orders to bring back a bottle of Côtes de Provence and sliced dried sausage and biscuits. When the door clicks shut, your eyes flicker to Natasha. She stares back.

Papers go flying and the wood of the table groans with your combined weight. You feel giddy, excited as she falls against you, echoes of Siberian nights pressed against cold walls. Now is no different as she pins you to the polished wooden surface and the evidence of the broken world bites into your back. 

Natasha is everywhere. Scorching lips, her very touch electric. 

“Look at you. You want it so badly don’t you, little _Schatz,”_ she mouths against the shell of your ear. 

_Treasure_. Your mother tongue. It’s enough to draw a whimper from you. 

But this is not the Red Room. For the first time, you want to unravel her protective charms, to show her that the two of you are no longer the Academy’s puppets. That you are stronger than how they’ve broken and mended you back together like bits of porcelain. You are Natasha’s diamond. 

_“Золотце.”_ You whisper back in Russian. _Darling_. 

And then the words keep tumbling from your lips. _Yes. I’ve missed you. Please, please._

You see the change in Natasha’s eyes, feel it in the way she lays you out beneath her and then she trails lower and lower, fingers kissing the skin of your thighs as she nudges past your pencil skirt like you have all the time in the world, like Steve won’t walk in at any minute. 

Kissing the most sensitive part of your anatomy like she would your mouth, hints of teeth and pressure behind her tongue. She wrestles you still with a growl as you start to shake, pushing you higher onto the table as her jade eyes wordlessly challenge you to resist the wet heat and jumping muscles in your lower abdomen. 

It’s downright cruel, toying with the adolescent dynamic of your superior, making you submit and receive. 

Your body is starved of pleasure. You shatter, hot pressure and heat pulsing between your thighs and even then Natasha continues to suck tight.

Steve later returns with wine and hor d'oeuvres just as you and Natasha are poring over chemical compounds and equations. 

**

You sit at an outdoor café between Steve and Natasha. Steve, arguably being the most fluent in French, (a point you and Natasha are quick to challenge him on), takes the initiative of ordering lunch for the three of you. Smoked herring, roasted almonds, steamed mussels with white wine, Crottin de Chavignol, chocolate mousse. And plenty of champagne. 

It feels ironic to be enjoying such good food and company when the rest of the world is hysterical with the paranoia of nuclear stockpiling. You’ve always been forced to prepare for a war, always for an uncertain future. You relish these fleeting moments of peace. 

You feel deliciously light headed by your third glass, faintly register Steve’s gentle touch on your knee, fingers tracing below the fabric of your sundress. A breeze flickers through your hair and you think you hear Steve’s breath catch, feel his eyes on you.

Natasha sees it all over the rim of her wine glass. 

**

Milan. A behemoth of a city, the soul of the Western Roman Empire. High fashion and international brands. 

You take advantage of the Quadrilatero della Moda and purchase your disguises for the gala you are to attend that same evening. Peggy has sent a wire of possible scientists behind the Winter Soldier being in attendance. You are to infiltrate and get names.

Your dress is devastating. Versace, custom tailored. Fabric dripping off of you like quicksilver, catching light and glances alike. A tasteful neckline, yet sheer and amorous in showing the swell of your hips, the glossy skin of your thighs. Silk lined opera gloves, glittering heels and teardrop diamond earrings. The final touch, your favorite piece in the ensemble, the sleek onyx wig with wispy bangs.

Natasha steps into the bathroom. Valentino, black satin that fits her like a second skin, the classic high slit that accentuates her gorgeous legs. Strappy heels, fingers candied with precious stones. And a platinum blonde bob. She smirks when she sees you, hogging the bathroom mirror as she applies rich wine lipstick. 

Poor Steve nearly chokes when he sees you, overwhelmingly beautiful. Eyes like sapphires, full lashes fluttering when he takes in the sight of you. He’s dressed in a two piece Armani suit that hugs him just right around the chest and shoulders, a simple silk bow tie, freshly polished leather shoes. 

He’s applied a prosthetic beard, one so natural you think it may be real.

“What do you think?” He asks with a touch of shyness as he runs a hand over his face. He looks achingly handsome. It makes you giggle, soft and genuine and Steve feels his pulse stutter. 

You sidle up to him, lacquered lips hovering just inches from his neck. 

“I think we have a gala to crash.” You whisper.

**

The sting goes off without a hitch. It’s amazing how trusting people can be in the presence of beautiful faces. You and Natasha work your magic and wire a name back to Peggy once you return to the suite. Vasily Karpov.

And any game you thought you had been playing with Steve on your part is quickly dissolved after the fourth glass of Prosecco warms your belly and blood. 

You hear the hiss of water, see Natasha shimmy out of her dress as she disappears into the shower. The movement is adorable, girlish. You would have offered to unzip her if she hadn’t been so insistent on showering first out of the three of you. 

“What’s so funny?” Steve murmurs from behind you, his own lips curving upward slightly in amusement. Warmth colors his cheeks, dusty rose and azure pupils blown wide. The ghost of his touch against your waist, mouth tickling your ear. You hum in response, your world hazy and glowing with the lights of Milan. You press your back hard into his chest, like the way he tightens his grip around you, his breath sharpening. 

Then, movement catches your eye. You realize that Natasha has left the door of the bathroom open. You can see the contours of her body behind the frosted glass and steam, the curve of her frame as she goes to wash her hair.

You’ve seen Natasha naked hundreds of times, but this stirs something deep and sensual inside you. Your mind sputters, blanking and Steve takes the opportunity to kiss down your shoulder blade, severing your concentration even more. 

“You like watching Natasha?” He asks, voice like sin. He steps further into you, flush against your hips where you can feel him most, his lips tracing the arch of your neck. “I love watching you,”

You exhale, delighted, tilt your head back against him and his mouth becomes more urgent on your skin. 

“Oh?” You prompt.

“Mm. Won’t you turn those pretty eyes on me?” 

You shift in his arms, look up at him through a veil of liquid courage and desire, irises iridescent, charcoal fanned lashes like flitting moth wings. 

“That's it.” He murmurs. 

You share a perfect kiss. Steve’s hands cradle your face and you feel so precious, so adored. Steve is so gentle despite the rippling thirst you feel lingering between the two of you. A slip of tongue and you taste honeydew melon and sparkling sweetness and all resolve crumbles.

The cool touch of silk sheets feels foreign against your skin. You’ve only ever made love urgently, before the world can expire and crash and burn around you. Pushed into darkened hallways, wood and notebook spirals digging into your back. 

So when Steve guides you onto the pillows, guides himself between your thighs, you feel as if it’s your first time all over again. Naive, inexperienced, yet lust buzzing brighter than the alcohol in your veins.

He senses the hint of hesitation and stills above you. Jacket and tie discarded, collar undone, open. His hands still rest on your bare waist, snaked below the fabric of your dress.

“Do you want me to stop?” He whispers. The silence is broken by both of your ragged breaths and the steady sound of water.

“Christ, no. Hurry, please. Please, Steve.” You sigh. The same raspy urge you have always begged from Natasha.

A stretch that has you gasping, arching into him and Steve cursing into the crook of your neck. The both of you still fully clothed, desperate and needing something you can only find within each other. And Steve placates with open mouthed kisses to your throat and chest, letting you grasp at his strong arms as you try and anchor yourself.

Steve goes slow, as slow as he can with your heat tight and hot around him, with you still wearing that bewitching onyx wig spilling over the sheets like ink.

“Feels real good,” he shudders, blissful.

The praise has you sighing into his chest, heart light as air as he gathers you close in his arms. He turns your head with a gentle touch to your jaw, kissing and groaning and so content with you like sunkissed moonlight beneath him.

You can see Natasha’s burning silhouette and Steve continues to cup your face, keeping your eyes focused where he knows you want it most. Familiar warmth and fluttering pleasure. Your mind begins to glaze over, vision rolling as you watch Natasha, feel Steve driving into you, mouth falling open. It’s erotic, you watching Natasha and Steve seeing only you. 

You clench around him, whimpering, eyes rimmed with silver and Steve hisses, chasing his own end, fever bright and you offer exactly what he needs. The shower trickles off just as his heat spills onto your inner thigh.

He holds you, presses a tender kiss to your lips and you feel protected, tired, warm. You smile sleepily, run a hand through his hair as the two of you catch your breath. Steve makes love like a perfect summer day, like pouring sunshine. You feel another bit of the Siberian chill melt away. 

Neither of you bother to move as Natasha walks out of the bathroom, toweling off crimson curls and smelling like soap and steam. 

“I saved you both some hot water.” She purrs. “Looks like you’ll need it.”

**

You can see the neoclassical spires and archways of Hungary from your position on the bed. Budapest stretches before you, the Széchenyi Chain Bridge linking across the Danube River, miles and miles of elegant cityscape. 

Then, Natasha’s mouth between your legs, Steve in your mouth. Tight suction on your skin and a moan that has Steve sighing against you.

“So pretty.” You hear. Natasha. 

_“Ma poupette.”_ Steve cooes.

A tangle of limbs and flushed bodies. Hands in your hair, searing lips against your own. Friction and heat. Breathlessness, ecstasy. 

**

Steve tosses his pad of paper onto the desk, lets out a burst of a breath. You look up from the coil of silk sheets around you, drowsy, face coral pink and gleaming. Natasha is draped over you half asleep with her head pillowed against her arms. 

“What is it?” She asks. 

Steve shakes his head, his back facing you. “You should take a look at this.” He murmurs.

Rather reluctantly, the two of you slink out of bed. You sense his seriousness and place a soft kiss to his cheek, scanning the fan of documents over his shoulder. Rosters, wiretap transcripts, chemical makeups. Natasha joins your side and the two of you read in silence. 

Then, you see it. _Deuterium and tritium, fused with helium to release catastrophic energy._

Your chest tightens. “You don’t think…” you start. 

Another tense beat of silence.

“Hydrogen isotopes,” Natasha whispers. “The Winter Soldier is a hydrogen bomb.”

“The United States developed the first thermonuclear weapon a little less than a year ago. This timing is impeccable.”

A chill comes over you, hard and fast. The hotel suite seems to grow smaller and smaller around you and the two people who’ve shattered your glass walls. Sunlight and marble. 

Now it seems the world will surely burn.

“What do we do?”

“We tell Peggy. After that, it’s out of our hands.”

Suddenly, the expanse of the city looks fragile and delicate beyond the Danube, like a miniature, no match against fire and chemical energy. You see Budapest and then further beyond to cities and countries weary of conflict. Warsaw. Moscow. Prague. _Berlin_. Echoes of war still fresh in the soul of Europe. 

You sickeningly realize that your work over the past decade has all been the same. Regardless of the KGB or MI6 or even Steve’s experience in the CIA, you’ve still been pitted against foreign nations made out to be an enemy, digging through dirt for secrets like the one you’ve just uncovered. 

And all for what?

You can’t keep doing this. Feeding intel, harvesting secrets. You feel a twinge, a twisted sense of responsibility for all that’s happened. After all, agents and espionage and confidentials have been fueling this cold, frigid war for years. You, Natasha, and Steve know this better than anyone. It seems humanity will never learn. The cycle of destruction will never break. 

The iron curtain has descended upon your stage and you have played your part perfectly. You are happy in keeping it that way. 

“We wire this back to HQ. Then, I’m finished.” You finally whisper. 

Steve and Natasha look to you, look to each other. 

“Okay.” Says Steve.

**

Peggy receives the tip and your desire to go dark. A part of you breaks at Peggy’s kind words, knowing that you won’t be back in London for a very long time. She cordially thanks you and wires back three one-way tickets. 

**

Napoli. Gorgeous, baby blue skies and cotton clouds, the shimmering Mediterranean. Bright and charming buildings, the crux of a people who have lived and endured for centuries. 

You get spectacularly sunburned, a sensation that you’ve had yet to experience with warm water and sand between your toes. You’re pleased when the angry red skin melts into a pretty tan, freckles dotting the exposed skin of your shoulders. 

You explore the coastal towns in Steve’s charming powder blue Aston Martin, windswept hair drifting in the breeze and Natasha’s fingers laced through yours, sunglasses resting on the bridge of your nose.

Night brings ice cold white wine and a sky full of constellations. Drunk with love and a life you’ve never had a chance to fully take in, looking out over the sparkling city from your villa. 

**

You learn that the CIA is looking for Steve and you will have to relocate to a different city in the coming weeks for the sake of Peggy’s sanity. Steve knows your taste for warm weather, promising for you all to stay within your beloved halo of the Mediterranean.

Your freedoms of leisurely walks in the sun and lazy bistro lunches will be affected, at least until Peggy can figure out a way to scrub you off of the United States’s blacklist.

But then again, the three of you have always learned to keep secrets.   
  



End file.
